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It’s a game like any other when Shane gets slammed head-first into the barricade by Marleau — it’s a fair hit, just a nasty one — and he goes down like a sack of potatoes, staggering off the barricade and dropping almost immediately first to one knee and then onto all fours, dizzily shaking his head and fumbling with his gloves.
He’s called off the ice and cleared by medics, but kept out of the rest of the game and kept under observation for a second-grade concussion- the Metros lose, adding insult to injury (literal) injury. Partly it’s due to the loss of Hollander and the stability his presence always provides the team, but partly it’s due to Rozanov, who plays like a fucking demon for the rest of the game.
“Fucking asshole,” Hayden snarls to JJ, who nods sympathetically. “He’s like a goddamn bloodhound.. What the fuck’s his problem?”
“He’s always reminded me more of a shark,” Carter buts in unhelpfully. “Like the one from Finding Nemo. He smells the blood in the water, every time.” His smile, too, always too wide and too toothy, looks like a shark’s. Rozanov’s got a cocky, cruel look about him, and Hayden thinks he always has, even before he was captain of the Raiders, back when he was a rookie.
“Couldn’t give us a break even this once,” Hayden continues, still fuming, with his arms folded across his chest.
It’s not that Shane really needs the protection, but Hayden can’t help the righteous anger that bubbles up in him every time someone throws a dig Shane’s way. Shane is a good captain, a good man, and a good friend. Hayden loves him, Jackie loves him, their kids love him. He keeps the Montreal boys in line and sure, he may be quiet and, fine, some people call him antisocial, but that’s just because they haven’t seen how Shane looks when he’s relaxed on the couch at home and watching game reruns, spine curved, eyes sparkling. Shane doesn’t need protection - Hayden will never forget the great Scott fight of 2013 - but he deserves it, is all, and Hayden can’t help but be worried for his best friend, especially after a hit like that.
That’s the whole reason Carter and JJ are keeping Hayden company in his hotel room. They’ve lucked out with conjoined hotel rooms for once - the balcony attaches Hayden’s room to Shane’s, and although Hayden knows Shane would never let them take advantage of the setup to host a party, at least now it means that they’ll know the second that Shane’s returned safe by medical.
JJ is leaned up against the balcony railing, watching Hayden pace in amusement. They’ve been off the ice for not even an hour, opened up two six-packs of beers forty minutes ago, and the sun is just about setting on the Montreal horizon, gold and blue gleaming off the red-tiled roofs. “He’ll be fine, man,” JJ tells Hayden. “Chill out.”
“I am chill,” Hayden scowls. “My wife is blowing up my phone, that hit was live streamed! Do you want to explain to Jackie that we don’t have any updates for her? Do you?”
Carter grins at the reference to Jackie - the boys all love Jackie. It’s a recurring joke that they like her more than they like Hayden himself.
Their wait comes to an abrupt end when they hear the door to Shane’s room click open, and they lurch forward to press their faces up against the glass balcony door. “Oh, shit, wait,” JJ hisses, and reaches out his arms to push Carter and Hayden backwards, out of sight behind the floor-to-roof curtains covering half of the balcony doors in Shane’s room.
It’s not Shane, who’s just stumbled into the bedroom. He’s accompanied by two medics, one of whom has Shane’s arms over their shoulders, and helps lower him onto the bed. “You're sure you’ll have someone coming to help you with everything?”
Shane nods, smiles at them, ever charming poster boy. “I have a teammate right next door,” he tells them, sounding like it’s not the first time he’s mentioned this. “I’ll be fine. Not my first rodeo.”
“We know that, Mr Hollander,” says the second nurse, sounding unimpressed. Nurses often are. Hockey players are not known for following medical protocol, even ones from Ontario.
“I’ll be fine, guys, really.” Shane smiles at them again, dials up the charm even though Hayden can tell he’s tired. “Thank you.” It’s a clear dismissal, and after fluffing his pillows unnecessarily and fetching him a glass of water from the ensuite, the nurses wave goodbye and leave Shane in the room on his own.
As soon as they’re gone, Shane’s entire body releases tension Hayden hadn’t noticed him carrying, as he sinks into the pillows on his bed and raises a hand up to his eyes to block out the light. “Ugh,” he grumbles to himself, and Hayden winces in sympathy as Shane’s head shifts more towards the window and the bruise across his forehead is shown more clearly.
“Let’s give him a second,” Hayden decides, “then we’ll go in and cheer him up.” JJ and Carter nod in agreement, and Hayden’s resolved to give him no more than ten minutes, pushing away from the balcony door and towards his own room, when there’s a clear knock at Shane’s door.
“Who the fuck is that?” JJ sounds curious, and shit, so is Hayden. If it’s a member of the team’s administrative branch, they’d send an email. If it’s a coach, they know better than to bother an injured player until the morning after the incident. Maybe the medics forgot something?
Shane freezes on the bed, and slowly lifts himself up to his elbows. “There’s no way,” he says to himself, quiet enough that Hayden almost doesn’t hear it.
Shane staggers to his feet way too fast, catching himself on the wall and dragging himself over to the door with an alarming urgency, opening and shutting it so quickly that Hayden almost misses the moment that Ilya Rozanov darts inside.
All three men on the balcony reel back in surprise at the sight of Rozanov, his blonde curls still greasy with sweat and rumpled from his helmet.
“What the fuck’s he doing here?” Carter is squinting in confusion, and Hayden is scowling, enraged - “How did he get in here? Who told him where we’re staying? What the fuck’s he playing at?” Hayden jumps up to intervene, but JJ inhales sharply and holds onto his elbow, keeping him in place as the scene in front of them actually registers in Hayden’s vision.
“Fuck are you doing here?” Shane sounds mad as hell, but it’s different than Hayden’s used to — indignant, not anger for real.
“Checking you do not have brain damage,” Rozanov offers, his tone flippant, but as they watch, he crowds Shane up against the wall with gentle hands. His fingers come up to cradle Shane’s jaw, who flaps ineffectively with his hands for a moment before sinking into the touch, entirely unexpectedly.
“Pretty face like yours cannot take these hits,” Rozanov chides. He’s tilting Shane’s face towards the light, and there’s an intensity in his eyes that burns brighter and fiercer than Hayden has ever seen it on the ice.
“What the actual fuck,” Hayden says flatly. JJ’s mouth has dropped open in blatant shock. Carter, silently, mouths whaaaaat, long and dragged out.
Shane’s hands come back up, not to push Rozanov away, but to encircle his wrists. “You’ve got some fucking nerve,” he tells Rozanov, glowering. “This, after last time? I haven’t heard from you in — Rozanov, fuck off!” This last bit he says in response to Rozanov looming in, their bodies flat against the wall, his nose pressing up against Shane’s cheek, then his jaw, tracing the line of his ear with one hand.
“Ah. You are still angry about the summer,” Rozanov observes. His hands continue their exploration of Shane’s head, horribly gentle even as they turn Shane’s head one way and then the other.
Shane shoves at Rozanov, once, twice, before his hands fall against Rozanov's chest and stay there. His fingers curl into Rozanov’s sweaty jumper and his knuckles whiten. “Yes, I’m still ang— you never apologised! You just - at the awards show, you just - and what if someone saw you? Hayden is next door! Fuck off!”
Rozanov presses in close, bestowing a kiss to Shane’s unbruised cheek. “Nobody saw me. Pike is not here. I am careful, you know I am careful. You did not have fun, last time?” Another kiss to Shane’s cheek, and a delicate touch to his bruised forehead. His hand dips lower, resting against Shane’s clavicle.
Shane scowls. “You’re never careful. And you never apologised.”
Rozanov huffs a laugh against Shane’s skin, shaking his head. He closes his eyes for a brief moment. “Let me make it up to you now, then,” he proposes. “You scare me, on ice today.”
Hayden’s heart has stopped beating, he thinks. He feels frozen in place, watching his best friend’s face go soft and warm, eyes molten as his rival of almost a decade pulls back and places his own hands over Shane’s, which are still fisted in Rozanov’s jumper.
“Don’t be stupid,” Shane tells him, but Hayden can tell he’s not angry anymore, Rozanov can tell, anybody with eyes could tell that Shane’s putty in this man’s hands. “You’ve seen me take worse hits than this, Roz. You’ve given me worse hits than this.”
Rozanov makes a tschk noise and shakes his head. “Never like this,” he protests, oddly earnest. “No, Hollander. He gave you concussion, yes?”
“It could’ve happened to anyone,” Shane protests, rolling his eyes and then grimacing as that undoubtedly makes his headache spike.
“It happened to you,” Rozanov counters, his tone intense and grim. “I give Cliff drills for a month.” When that makes Shane laugh, Rozanov says - “Two month. You are off ice for two weeks, yes? Cliff’s fault. Is only fair.”
Shane scoffs, and Rozanov tilts his head like a puppy, nosing at Shane’s jaw, moving one hand up to graze lightly again over the ugly, darkening bruise on his cheek. “Your terrible team will have to drop out of competition without you.”
Shane tilts his head back against the wall, his limbs loose, a stupid besotted smile on his face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, you asshole. It’s just two weeks. Marleu’s your friend, anyway; it was an accident.”
“Mm,” Rozanov replies, which isn’t much of an answer, but Hayden can wager a guess that whatever Shane is to Rozanov, it’s more than any of his other so-called friends.
Shane sighs, and his face sinks into Rozanov’s palm. “You’re an asshole,” he tells Rozanov. Rozanov smiles at this, for some reason, and he leans in, presses another kiss to Shane’s cheek, then his jaw, then finally his lips - ducks in again for a second and third kiss against Shane’s lips, moving his hands back to Shane’s head, cradling Shane's face in his big hands.
Hayden sort of wants to be sick - he didn’t know Shane could even look like this. He thought he knew Shane better than anyone in the league, better than anyone outside his parents - thought he knew what Shane looked like when he was happy. No, he realises now, he hadn't really seen Shane relaxed and happy, because Hayden’s never seen the way he’s glowing right now.
“Jesus fucking christ,” Hayden mutters. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“Yeah,” JJ agrees, face pale. “We should go back inside. Before they notice us.”
“Oh my god, Rozanov would kill us,” Carter mutters. “Go, go go go. Come on, Hayden!”
Hayden lingers, even though the others have hastily slunk back towards his room - he can’t quite tear his eyes away from the pair in Shane’s room. They’re kissing properly, now, and Shane’s smiling against Rozanov’s lips. Rozanov still has him pressed up against the wall, but his arms have wound around Shane’s waist - it’s a desperate position. A concerned embrace. He might actually fucking care about Shane, which is… Hayden doesn’t know what to do with this. He wishes he’d never gone out to the balcony and never caught sight of something that Shane obviously hasn’t told anyone about, then feels immediate guilty for thinking that, because fuck, Shane shouldn’t have to hide this. Maybe Rozanov, yes, because Rozanov is a dick, and the captain of their rivalling team, but…
Fuck, Hayden hadn't even known he was into dudes.
Back in Hayden’s room, the three men sit in silence. “Um,” Carter says after a few moments. “That was…”
JJ hisses an exhale and runs a hand over his face. “Can we just pretend we didn’t see anything?”
Hayden shakes his head helplessly. He has to tell Jackie, obviously, he tells Jackie everything - but is Shane even out? Is he out to anyone? Can Hayden tell anyone at all?
“Probably the best idea,” he agrees glumly. “Jesus fucking christ.”
“Hey, man,” Carter says awkwardly. “You guys don’t, like…” They stare at him for a moment, and Carter shifts in place awkwardly. “Have a problem with Shane, right…? He’s still our captain, and…”
“No, no, of course not, what the fuck?” JJ shakes his head emphatically, and Hayden snaps out, “He’s my best friend, Vaughn, what the fuck?”
Carter holds up his hands in surrender. “Just checking, man!”
“Obviously I don’t have a problem,” JJ continues, “it’s just… weird. I don’t think we’re meant to know this.”
“No, man,” Hayden sighs heavily. “Definitely not. It’s Shane. Come on. He doesn’t tell us shit.” Hayden scrubs a hand over his face and makes his peace with trying to keep this a secret from Jackie. “You’re right, JJ. We should just… not mention this, okay? Whatever Hollander and Rozanov have going on, I don’t think it’s… new. And it’s never caused an issue.”
“That we know of,” JJ mumbles, but he nods in agreement.
“I vote we head to the hotel bar,” Carter announces. “Let’s get out of here, bro. I don’t know how long that demon is staying next door, but I might die if I have to run into him on my way out.”
“Oh my god,” JJ whispers to himself, horrified, and Hayden laughs despite himself. They scramble out the door and proceed to get so shit-faced that all three of them look worse than the their concussed team member in the morning.
Shane eases himself into the plane seat beside Hayden, like usual, and sticks a gatorade under his nose. “Have fun last night?”
Hayden stares at his best friend, whose eyes are still a little woozy, whose hair is a mess, who maybe spent last night with one of the most famous men in hockey who has loudly and publicly affirmed his animosity with Shane for years. A man who, judging from the way he held Shane so gently and kissed his face so kindly, appears to feel just as strongly as Hayden does that Shane deserves to be protected.
“Yeah, man,” he manages to croak, and bravely does not ask did you?
“Hey, Shane,” he says instead, “you know I love you, yeah? We all do.”
Shane sends him a funny look, but his lips are quirked up into a smile. “Dude, not you too. Why does everyone think I was about to die on the rink yesterday? It was not that bad.”
Hayden aims for a smile and hopes it doesn't look like a grimace. He unscrews the gatorade lid and thinks about his best friend, who smiled at another man last night like he’d seen the sun for the first time. Thinks about how the tension drained out of Shane’s shoulders when he was being held up by someone else’s arms. Thinks about the way he smiled into Rozanov’s lips.
“You know me,” he tells Shane, and nudges their shoulders together. “I worry about you.” He leans over, smacks a kiss into Shane’s hair, who laughs and pushes him away.
Hayden can’t make this easier for Shane - he won’t tell him what he saw, can’t even make sure JJ and Carter won’t. He can’t bear the pressure of Shane’s captaincy, or the attention from the media that Hayden’s never experienced as yet another white Canadian.
He can do this, though.
He can remind Shane that he’s known, and he’s loved, and eventually, Hayden hopes, he can show Shane that his friendship is a safe place to land.